


the fires we started

by alwaysbuddy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-22 08:18:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysbuddy/pseuds/alwaysbuddy
Summary: “How long?” Kent asks. He won’t look at Jack. He won’t.There’s a pause.“Since.” Jack doesn’t look at him either. “Since then.”Since you.





	the fires we started

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blazeofglory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/gifts).



> One of the prompts was for a post-first game hook-up with a happy ending, and some slight canon divergence (in which Jack and Bitty never dated). Turned out more hopeful than happy, but I think the both can definitely coincide. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! <3 It was very fun writing for this exchange.

 

It starts like this:

The puck drops, once more.

They meet on the ice, because that’s where they’ve always belonged. It doesn’t matter what they’ve done, or what they’ve said in the past, because that slate’s wiped clean the second they get out there. The second their skates hit the ice, there’s nothing else that matters except what they’re here to do.

He doesn’t watch the clock as it ticks down. A second. And then, another.

Kent touches his stick to the ice, hears the crowd roar, and then it’s done.

They win by a point.

It feels like more. If they hadn’t shown the final score and you’d only seen the expressions on the faces of the Falconers, you would think they’d lost by two or three goals. Providence has had a fantastic run on the road over the past two weeks or so, but it’s come to an end tonight.

Kent’s not sorry. He knows other teams aren’t fond of the way the Aces play sometimes, hard and gritty and desperate when it comes down to the wire, but he’d rather have the W than not. And if Providence can’t handle it, then, well. It’s not his problem.

It’s what they’re here to do.

“Hey,” Kent calls, skating over to the crease to knock his visor against Linc’s goalie mask, before moving back to lightly fist-bump Swoops and Covey, who’ve come up behind him to do the same. “Good job, boys.”

“You good, Cap?” One of the rookies swings around, looking a little concerned, still unused to Kent’s penchant for getting into all sorts of situations on the ice, whether they be because of his doing or otherwise. “You were on the bottom of that pile, right there.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent says, waving off the kid’s worry. That probably hadn’t looked great from the bench, their captain face down on the ice with his helmet a ways away. He’s probably just going to end up with a bunch of bruises all over. “M’good, don’t worry. They’re not gettin’ me down that easy.”

“You keep saying that, but I saw you making faces when you got up,” Nova says, hooking the end of his stick into the back of Kent’s jersey, tugging him close “Go get that shit checked out.”

“Later,” Kent tells him, escaping his hold to go congratulate the rest of the team as they file off the ice, making sure to be the last one off as usual. He doesn’t glance over at the Falconers as he does so. Making eye contact with any of them right now seems like a pretty bad idea.

True to his word, though, he does go see the medic before he heads off to the showers. He’s still got a bit of a sore neck from where another player—he hadn’t seen who it’d been in the midst of the chaotic rush—had tripped and sticked his helmet right off. But he’s declared alright, just needing a fair bit of rest and an ice pack or two, and he’s sent back to his locker room.

Kent heads down the hallway, poking at a spot under his pads absently as he walks. It’s going to look pretty gnarly in the morning, he figures. Hockey bruises usually do. He’s already got a red line along his collar from where Mashkov had picked him up by the scruff of his jersey, exclaiming loudly what a little rat he was, nearly injuring their guy, apparently.

And Jack—Jack had been right there, on the ice. Looking right at him, expression unreadable, as it always is, these days.

Kent hates it. He hates that he can’t tell what Jack is feeling the way he used to when they once stood side-by-side, out on the ice together, or even playing against each other during skirmishes.

Jack’s face had been determined and set the entire game through. That focus, Kent still remembers, and still knows, at least. That had been the only familiar thing he’d seen on Jack’s face tonight, though.

He had expected as much, before coming into this. Sometimes, it feels like the only one who hasn’t changed is him, and everyone else has moved on with their lives, even Jack. He’d left for Boston, found a new life, and left Kent behind a second time.

And Kent—Kent’s just been trying.

The hallway opens out into a bigger one, and Kent passes a few familiar faces, staff members and a couple of assistant equipment managers who wave or nod. “Yo,” Rafi, one of the team scouts, calls when he’s about to head in. “Good game. The team heading out tonight?”

“’Course,” Kent says, grinning. It’s Vegas. They’re the Aces. There’s no way they’re not hitting the clubs tonight. It’s their first win at home, after a slow start to the season, and it’s much welcome for the rookies who’ve been looking eager to get out on the town with a reason to celebrate. “You in?”

“Forget it,” Rafi says, elbowing him lightly, “gotta submit my reports by tonight. I’ll buy the team a round next win.”

Kent laughs. “You better remember that when we whoop the Preds on Wednesday.”

There’s the sound of a brief scuffle inside the locker room, and then, a head pokes out behind the door. “Hey, Parser,” Swoops says, “what’s taking you so goddamn long? Get your ass ready, the kids are gonna leave without you.”

Rafi grins. “Duty calls, eh, Cap?”

Kent just salutes him, and turns to join the rest of his team.

 

 

They end up spread out across two clubs, one a little more flashy, and the other one less so. Kent’s done his job, he’s made sure that some of them have stayed behind with the rookies to get their drunk, giddy asses back to their own places once the night’s over, while the rest head over to their regular haunt, some place a little more cosy, a little more chill.

 _I’m getting old,_ Kent thinks, listening to Nova snort at something that Swoops has just said, and he swings his arm around somebody’s shoulder, just enjoying the light conversation that’s happening around him as the small group takes up the sidewalk. _I’d rather hang with the older guys than the young ones, now._

It’s not a terrible thought. They call out their greetings to the bar staff as they enter, piling into a booth as Kent promises to shout them a round. It’s nice to just kick back after a good game, a good win, and just have a chill couple of drinks over easy speak.

Besides. Kent doesn’t think he could go pick up, tonight, or even sidle up to some pretty thing on the dance floor and offer to buy them a drink. Not tonight. Not—not with Jack, still in the city, still somewhere close, who’d only been a few feet away from him on the ice just a few hours ago, who’d been close enough for Kent to remember every single time he’s seen Jack face-to-face in the years prior.

“Speak of the fucking devil,” Linc suddenly pipes up, motioning towards the bar with his bottle and a jerk of his chin. “Parse. It’s your boy.”

“My who?”

Kent’s head swivels to see who he’s talking about.

Sitting at the bar counter, head tilted down as he scrolls idly through his phone, is Jack. His shoulders are hunched, and from where Kent’s sitting, he can only see the back of his head, but he can recognize Jack from a mile away.

 _No fucking way._ It’s him. He’s here.

“Don’t,” Swoops warns, but Kent’s not quite listening anymore. They’re not on the ice. Where the fuck is his team? He came out here alone? “Kent. I know that look.”

“I just,” Kent starts, and then stops. The team doesn’t know about him and Jack. They know the basics—just that they’d been friends, they’d played on the same team and line, and that they weren’t quite friends anymore. Nothing else.

He doesn’t quite trust himself to not give it all away in front of the rest of them. He knows, if he goes up to Jack right now, everyone’s going to be watching, waiting to see what happens. It’s human nature to be curious.

“I won’t,” Kent concedes, for now, and Swoops settles back, looking relieved. Kent’s sure he doesn’t want their night to be ruined by Kent’s personal shit, and Kent doesn’t want that either.

He ends up waiting for them to head off first, telling them he needs to use the bathroom and that he’ll head home on his own, and by then, everyone’s loosened up enough to take his excuse at face value, just telling him to get home safe.

Jack’s still there. He’s still there, even after an hour. Still nursing the same drink, still looking down at his phone.

He hasn’t even turned behind once.

Kent makes his feet take him to the counter, one step after another, until he’s standing just over Jack’s shoulder, and he gets a quick glance of a chat group, before Jack’s thumbing out of the chat, and shutting his phone off. “Hey,” he says, and he looks up at Kent, eyes just as piercing as they’d been earlier tonight, lazer-sharp focus directed on Kent in a different context, now. “You sure took your time.”

“Wasn’t gonna leave my guys. We’d just got here.” Kent slides into the seat beside Jack, and takes note of the still-not-quite-empty glass of juice he’s just tapping with absent fingers. “You’ve been here a while, though.”

“Yeah,” Jack says “A while.”

“Why aren’t you with your team?”

“We all needed some space,” Jack answers, but there’s something about the way he says it that tips Kent off instantly—he’s not being as honest as he possibly could. “I needed some space.”

“No,” Kent says, “you didn’t.”

“Fuck you,” Jack says, and he raises an eyebrow at Kent. “You’re making a presumption that you don’t get to make.”

“Don’t I?” Kent meets his eyes. “I’m not the one who’s been sitting at a bar the entire fuckin’ night, waiting for their—waiting for someone to come over. If you really needed space, you would’ve gotten the fuck outta here the second we walked in.”

Jack says nothing, but he looks tense. As if he’s ready to get up and leave. Walk right out of Kent’s life again, and disappear into that long night, until they’re mandated to meet once more.

He’s not having any of that.

Kent exhales, and then calls for another drink. He’s bordering the line between tipsy and truly drunk, but one more probably won’t bridge that gap. He’d built up his tolerance a long time ago when the bottle was all he had to turn to. “Fuck,” he says, the hint of a laugh in the back of his throat, “we always fuckin’ end up like this, don’t we.”

“Understatement of the decade,” Jack mutters. Regardless, the corner of his mouth quirks up, just slightly. “Shitty says hello, apparently.”

“That the one with the ‘stache?” Kent nods towards Jack’s phone. “I remember him. He’s cool. We talked at your… party.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change, but he mulls the words over. “You only spoke for a few minutes, and that was more than a year ago.” He shakes his head. “You always had a knack for people. You could charm anyone and everyone given the chance.”

Kent just hums in acknowledgment. “Everyone except you,” he says.

Jack makes a sound that sounds halfway to a laugh. “I don’t need to be charmed.”

 _What do you need, then?_ Kent thinks, saving the thought for himself, not daring to say it aloud. _You definitely didn’t need me, by the way you just cut me off. Cut me out._

_Never me._

Kent lets the conversation lapse for a few moments, before veering towards another topic, only slightly related. “You here with anyone else?”

“No,” Jack says.

“What about when you’re not here?”

“No,” Jack repeats, but this time, he looks at Kent when he says, “there’s no one. I’m not with anyone right now. There isn’t anyone.”

“You mean—that kid—”

“Not a kid.” Jack looks tired. “And, no. Really. There isn’t. Hasn’t been, for a long time.”

Kent’s mouth feels a little dry. Maybe it’s the alcohol he’s been taking sips of without any water to back it up with. Maybe it’s just the weather. Or, maybe, it’s the question that’s lodged itself in his throat that won’t subside until he’s said the words.

“How long?” Kent asks. He won’t look at Jack. He won’t.

There’s a pause.

“Since.” Jack doesn’t look at him either. “Since then.”

_Since you._

They sit in silence again, arms barely brushing. It’s pushing midnight soon, and they’re far from the only ones in the bar, but it feels like everything’s fallen away. Stripping Kent down layer by layer with each minute that passes, with each drink.

Kent tips his glass back, and gingerly settles it on the counter, before standing up. “I’m going back to my place.”

He doesn’t say anything more than that. He doesn’t think he can even make himself say any more, but—he’s leaving it hanging. There’s nothing more that he can add that could make that one sentence any clearer.

And—really, putting it in words is just going to get his hopes up too fucking high, and he’s not here to get his slammed against the ground again, the weight of Jack’s rejection heavy and suffocating.

He waits a moment longer.

Just as he’s about to turn and leave, Jack pushes his glass back across the counter, and throws down some cash.

Jack stands.

 

 

Kent remembers the last time they’d fucked like this.

It was years ago, but Kent can still recall the way they’d fought over something that just seems completely insignificant now. A play that had gone wrong, or a missed pass leading to the other team scoring, maybe, but what he remembers most vividly from that night was the way Jack had left bruises alongside the ones he’d already had from the game. They’d stayed for days.

He wants it again. Those smudges of black and blue and angry red, not just from stray elbows and sticks, but from purposeful fingers and the sharp cut of teeth.

And Kent wants all of it, wants the marks, wants the pain that comes with them—he just wants.

Kent doesn’t voice the thought, not even once, but Jack’s grip is tight on his wrist when he pins it against the wall, and Jack says, “You want this?” _Still?_ is the word that’s missing from that sentence. It’s not just, does Kent still want this the way he wants it?

It’s, does Kent still want this to happen?

“Yeah,” Kent answers, tilting his head back to meet Jack’s eyes, and he knows Jack is observing, cataloging his reaction when he presses into Kent’s hip with his other hand, right where he’d been knocked against the boards earlier. The ache makes Kent exhale a sharp breath through his teeth, but he leans right into it, and Jack’s eyes speak volumes about just how much he wants this too, just as much as Kent does. "So do you," he adds, and he knows he's right.

Jack sucks in an inhale, and nods. “Yeah,” he responds, voice like gravel. “Yeah, I do.”

They’d made it to Kent’s apartment without fuss, without anyone noticing them, caps and hoodies pulled over their heads. Kent’s grateful that Las Vegas is still a place where hockey players go mostly unnoticed, with other sports ruling the roost here, and he can get his fair share of peace and quiet when he needs it, compared to some other guys in the league in bigger markets.

Upon entering, Kent had led Jack to his room, neither of them saying a word, until Kent closed that door behind him too, and Jack had pushed him up against the wall right beside it.

This can’t be anything more than just a fuck. Somewhere, deep down, Kent’s still harbouring the stupid, silly thought that they could be something again, that they could still get back together and they could be the same thing they had been all those years ago—but it’s an impossible dream.

To have all of Jack again is just that—impossible.

He’ll just take whatever he can get, now.

 

 

They don’t kiss.

Kent tugs off his clothing in a swift motion, leaning back against the wall, and he watches Jack remove his button-up with deft fingers. Neither of them make eye contact, but Kent allows himself the briefest of moments to glance Jack up and down as he shucks off his trousers too, dropping them right by Kent’s.

He’s not as lean as he used to be. Jack’s put on much more muscle since coming up into the league, but Kent still remembers what it’d been like to run his hands down those strong thighs and leave finger-marks across his shoulder-blades. Kent watches Jack straighten back up, and when Jack turns to look at him, Kent suddenly feels exposed, even though they’re both naked.

There’s something about being under Jack’s eye like this, after so long, that makes Kent want to look away, to tuck his chin into his shoulder to avoid having to meet Jack’s gaze. Instead, he pastes on an expression that doesn’t betray any of his insecurity, and looks at Jack straight-on, brow raised as if he’s asking, ‘You in, or what?’

Jack steps close, never one to be outdone, and he turns Kent around, one hand on the side of his hip.

Kent presses his cheek against the wall, exhaling when he hears the sound of a cap click open, the bottle Jack had still known to look in the second drawer by the bed, for.

His touch isn’t slow, but they’re just barely hesitant, the pads of Jack’s fingers skimming down the curve of Kent’s ass cautiously, until he’s picking up the pace, telling Kent to spread his feet a little more, sliding one hand under Kent’s thigh to lift his leg up, giving Jack a better angle as he crooks his slick fingers inside Kent, first one, and then another, and then another.

Kent savors the slowly-building stretch, the ease in which Jack opens him up, fingers thick and purposeful. It’s been a while for Kent—he’s only ever fucked girls since Jack, and it’s never like this. He loves getting his dick into a hot, tight space, just as much as any other guy, but having something fill him up is a whole other experience, one that he’s missed for a while.

It’s even better this way—Jack doesn’t bother to prep him too much, because he knows Kent wants it to be tight, wants it to leave him sore and wanting more even though he’s been fucked out completely. Jack doesn’t have to ask, because he knows.

By the time Jack lets him turn back around again, Kent’s achingly hard, and he grinds against Jack’s hip, murmuring, “C’mon, c’mon.”

Jack’s not unaffected by any measure—he’s already flushed all over, and he’s just as hard as Kent is, noticeably so, when he rolls the condom on. His hands wander shamelessly over Kent, clasping the back of his legs to hoist Kent up in one fluid motion, and Kent shudders out a gasp that he quickly swallows back when Jack presses him back into the wall, his body bracketing Kent’s.

He feels even bigger like this, one arm under Kent to keep him up, the other guiding his cock to fit against Kent’s hole, rubbing across his balls and his rim before he does. Kent feels hot all over, and it’s not just because of that—it’s also because Kent can’t do anything but hold onto Jack, arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

When the head of Jack’s cock finally pushes inside Kent, he tightens his grip on Jack’s shoulders, biting his own lip. It’s a tense affair, Jack sliding into Kent slowly, but not taking his time either, and Kent just bearing his weight down on Jack to take him further, deeper, until he’s all the way in, and Kent feels so _full._

God, he’s wanted this for so long. He’s missed this so much.

He can’t bear to look at Jack while he’s in him, instead choosing to run his teeth along the curve of Jack’s shoulder, each little nip making Jack’s hips stutter as he fucks into Kent.

Jack’s fingers are already on their way to leaving bruises on the underneath of Kent’s thighs, fingers holding tight as he draws out of Kent to push back in again, quick, erratic thrusts that leave Kent tilting his head back against the wall, breathless and even more aroused than before.

The sound of just their breathing fills the room. Kent can’t say anything, can’t make himself say a single word, not even when Jack hikes him up just a little more, driving hard into him and almost getting Kent in that one spot that makes his entire body shudder.

Kent digs his ankles into the small of Jack’s back in an attempt to just give him a bit more leverage, to bear himself up just a little better in order to meet Jack’s thrusts, but the angle’s still off. It’s frustrating, not just for Kent, whose pleasure spikes and ebbs erratically with every thrust, not quite getting all the way there, just missing _a bit more—_ but for Jack too, who makes a dissatisfied sound in the back of his throat, obviously wanting the same.

It catches him off-guard when Jack suddenly pulls away from the wall he’s got Kent shoved up against. Kent’s arms tighten around Jack’s shoulders reflexively, but Jack’s grip is secure, and he just takes a couple of steps back before turning to drop Kent on the bed.

“S’not enough,” Jack’s saying, and then, he’s on top of Kent, his hands having moved from Kent’s hips to steady himself against the bed, and the way gravity plays its part in pulling Jack’s face closer to Kent’s as he hovers over him renders the gap between them into near non-existence.

This close, Kent can see the lines on Jack’s face that weren’t ever there before. He can see the way his eyes look more tired, shuttered and shadowed in the light emanating behind the headboard. But then, Jack shifts up, just slightly, and the look in his eyes changes.

Maybe it’s because he’s distracted. Maybe he’s about to do a runner, leave Kent here with an apology and a handful of cold emotion. Maybe he’s thinking about somebody else, somebody that he’s waiting to get back to, back home, on that campus of his.

 _I’m not with anyone, right now,_ Jack’s voice echoes in his mind, and Kent blinks back at Jack, who’s still looking at him in that odd way. _There isn’t anyone._

And then, as quickly as the look had come, it’s disappeared, and Kent is left with just his thoughts once more. They don’t even scatter when Jack positions himself back at Kent’s entrance again, and takes him, this time sliding smoothly in. Kent tenses up just slightly, the motion happening just a bit too abruptly for him to be ready, and Jack pauses for a moment, probably having felt the way Kent’s just gone tight around him.

“Kent,” Jack says, voice hoarse, and Kent’s trying to shake his head, to tell him that it’s fine, to keep going, because he wants this. He wants it rough, he wants it to hurt, so that he doesn’t have to let himself feel anything else but this. And Jack—Jack still hasn’t moved a muscle, still inside Kent, and he’s just looking at Kent like he’s made a mistake. “Kent,” Jack says again, but this time, it’s softer, like he wants Kent to understand something.

As he says Kent’s name, his hand runs down Kent’s side, a soft brushing motion feathering up against his hip, and then back down to run along the back of Kent’s thigh. The motion is soothing, something Kent hadn’t realized he’d wanted, until he’s relaxing into Jack’s grip again, allowing Jack to lift his hips and thrust in again at a better angle than before.

And when he does, Kent exhales quietly, a breathy, pleased sigh that makes Jack stumble, again pausing like he’s just been surprised by something. It doesn’t last long, the little hiccup in motion, but what it does is it slows Jack, and he strokes into Kent purposefully on the next attempt, his thick cock a long drag inside Kent, filling him up, making him bite his lip, his eyes fluttering shut.

Kent doesn’t understand, doesn’t know why Jack’s tipping them into a different direction than where this had been headed originally. He’d asked for Jack to fuck him, but this isn’t just fucking anymore. It’s not careless, nor is it rough like it had been just now, when they’d just been interested in hands on skin and clothes on the floor.

It’s something else now, something Kent doesn’t quite know until he’s face to face with Jack again, his broad body covering Kent’s as he leans up, breathing hard.

Kent’s dizzy with arousal and the lack of proximity between their faces once more and the sudden, staggering thought of Jack mouthing gently over his bruises instead of pressing into them. Jack’s so close, closer than he’s been in years, and Kent impetuously wants him, all of him, wants every piece he hasn’t been allowed to touch or see or feel since he lost him—Kent wants to touch him and get something back that doesn’t just hurt.

He doesn’t realize he’s lifting his hand to Jack’s face until Jack shudders out a breath at Kent’s fingers splayed across his jaw, brushing over his skin like he’s afraid to touch him, like he’s afraid that he’ll fuck this entire thing up if he lets too much show—and then, Jack is kissing him, his mouth hot and wet and desperate against his.

They’re kissing. They weren’t supposed to—Kent wasn’t supposed to let himself have this again, wasn’t supposed to be able to let Jack bite at his lip and then lick over it, wasn’t supposed to be able to feel Jack’s hand across his skin, soothing and warm, instead of hot and bruising.

Jack’s mouth is chapped, rough, but the way he kisses Kent is soft despite his urgency. He kisses back, wanting to taste Jack, wanting to take him in, wanting to let the feeling consume him.

Eventually, their mouths part, the wet smack of their lips a loud noise in the room, and Kent’s lips feel swollen. He feels wrecked, undone. Jack’s still inside him, he realizes, and it throws him even more off-kilter, making him let out a shaky breath, and, “Jack.”

“I’ve got you,” Jack says, voice hoarse, “ah— _fuck,_ Kenny,” and he picks up the pace again, this time hitting exactly where Kent needs him to. His entire body shudders, toes curling, and Kent moans into Jack’s mouth, eyes squeezing shut when he feels Jack wrap one hand around Kent’s cock, his grip a tight pressure around the head of it.

It’s almost too much and not enough at the same time, but then, Jack’s hand slips from where he’s gripping at the sheets beside Kent’s head to cover Kent’s wrist. He makes to pull away, but Kent tugs his own arm down until their palms are touching, grabbing Jack’s hand in his own.

Their fingers fit together like they had never ever been apart. Jack’s grip is solid, unyielding, and Kent thinks of cold winter nights in the Q when they couldn’t sleep, thinks of the unwavering grip around a hockey stick, thinks of a pair of shivering hands around a cup of coffee, and the warmth of a smile against his throat.

Now it’s too much, too much for Kent to stand, and he can’t—he can’t do this—

Jack says his name, and there’s so much packed behind those two syllables that Kent falls over the edge, clenching down hard around Jack as he comes across their stomachs, feeling like his breath’s been stolen right out of his lungs.

He feels light-headed, woozy, even as Jack finishes inside him, just a few more thrusts before he’s coming too, and he has the decency at least to pull out before he slumps onto the bed, breathing just as hard, as unending.

Kent’s still overwhelmed, even as he comes back to his senses. That hadn’t been what he’d expected from this—he hadn’t thought it would be anything like this.

He aches all over, from the bruises to where his shoulders had been pressed against the wall, to his sore hole, but his chest aches even more when he recognizes that this is it. After this, they’re going to go their separate ways again and Jack’s going to go home to his team and his friends and his school and that kid, and Kent’s going to be here.

Alone.

He turns away, not quite wanting to look at Jack. Not wanting Jack to go.

They lie there quietly, until Kent feels Jack roll onto his side, and prop himself up on his elbow. “Kenny,” Jack says, voice soft, and there it is, there’s Jack about to tell Kent that he’s got to go, that this was nothing more than a one-night hook-up, that it was a mistake or that Kent shouldn’t expect anything from this—

“Maybe I don’t have to go just yet,” Jack says instead, and it takes Kent aback.

He still doesn’t turn around, though. He lies there, listening to Jack’s soft breathing behind him, until he decides to reply. “I thought this—I thought you would want to get back to your team. Or whoever it is you’re with.”

“I’m not—Kenny,” Jack says again, “there isn’t anyone. There can’t really _be_ anyone,” he adds, “if I still want someone else.”

A silence drapes over them.

Kent makes himself breathe, before saying, “I said so many fucked up things before.” _I did so many fucked up things to you—even more than you did to me._

“I know,” Jack says.

“And I kept fucking with you again and again and you kept telling me no and I kept trying anyway.”

“I know,” Jack repeats, sounding a little upset, “I wasn’t ready, then.”

“And you are now?”

“No,” Jack admits, and Kent’s heart sinks again. It was too good to be true. But then, Jack says, “But I think we could still try. If—you still wanted to.”

Kent turns over, and faces Jack. “I’m not a good person,” he says, and Jack looks like he’s about to interrupt, but Kent talks over him, “I’m really not. I know, now. I… I’ve been seeing someone. A psychiatrist. The team doctor recommended her. She’s good, y’know? Got me to see what the fuck’s really wrong with me. Got me talking about things. I’m working on it, now. I really am.”

“I’m still working on it, too,” Jack says. “It would be unfair to expect everything to be perfect. For either of us.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, barely a whisper. “Yeah. I know.”

The conversation drops at that point, but it’s fine. Kent knows they’ll have to talk about it in the morning, that there’s no better way of going about it. But he wants it.

And Jack wants him.

He drifts off, the thought repeating in his head, until he barely notices the arm that drapes across his waist, pulling him close, keeping him warm.

 

 

In the morning, they find themselves awake earlier than they usually would be, before the sun’s even risen. They’re both bleary-eyed and tired all the way down to their bones, but Jack drags himself to Kent’s treadmill and does a mile or two while Kent lays in bed, scrolling through Twitter, only getting into the shower once he’s satisfied that none of his rookies had gotten into trouble last night.

It’s only a little while later that Kent directs them both to a diner, a small breakfast place he’d discovered when he’d first moved in, one that’s tucked away from most prying eyes with its high-set booths and tables hidden around corners or pillars.

They sit down, split a stack of pancakes over coffee, bacon and eggs.

Jack’s flight leaves just around afternoon, but he’s still got to go back to his hotel to grab his things. But they’ve still got time.

Kent pushes a piece of pancake into some syrup, and says, “So.”

“So,” Jack says.

They look at each other for a long moment, until they can’t take it, and they both break into laughter. “We’re both still great with words, eh?” Jack quips, and Kent just snorts.

“You meant what you said last night, though,” Kent murmurs, and Jack glances back down at his plate, still scraping his fork through his breakfast. His eggs have run all over his toast. “You wanted to give this another go.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I did.”

Kent feels overwhelmed again, like the night before. He can’t quite bring himself to believe that Jack does want it. He’s been pushed away so many times that he doesn’t expect anything else now, even despite that niggling hope that Jack still feels the same for him.

And now—

“How…” Kent says quietly, “how are we gonna make this work? With us being in separate teams and all.”

“I don’t know,” Jack answers honestly, “just take it one day at a time, I think.”

Kent doesn’t know what else to say to that, but then, he feels something nudging at his shin under the table. It’s Jack’s foot, and he shifts minutely, until his ankle is curled over Kent’s own.

It’s something Kent used to do when he wanted to hold Jack’s hand back when they were younger, when they were in public. He’d pretend to be playing footsie instead, but all he’d wanted was to just hold onto some part of him. Like an anchor. To know he was always there.

Kent meets Jack’s eyes, and he feels his throat constrict with some tight feeling. “Okay,” Kent says, and he nods. “One day at a time.”

They finish up and get ready to go. Jack has to head off in a separate direction, and Kent walks him to the nearest corner, but before he goes, Jack puts his hand on Kent’s arm, looking like he’s steeling himself for something, and then, says, “I missed you too.”

Kent just—stops.

He’s never said it back.

Not once. Not ever.

Jack exhales sharply, and raises his other to clutch Kent’s other arm. He says, “I know I never—I never said it. But I just. I wanted you to know. All this time—I missed you, Kenny. I did.”

“But why,” Kent whispers, “why didn’t you ever say it before?”

“Because,” Jack says, voice thick in his throat. “I just. I guess I was afraid of admitting it to myself. After everything that happened—and kept happening—I didn’t want to until I was sure. I thought everything I’d held onto all this time would just… collapse. But—every time you said it, I wanted to say it right back to you.”

“I thought you’d stopped caring,” Kent says, a little numbly. “I just thought—I thought you found something better.” _And I just kept going back because if the pain was all I could get, I’d still take it over nothing._

“I care.” Jack’s grip on his arms tightens momentarily. “I care, Kenny.”

Kent doesn’t know what to say. Jack’s phone is ringing, and Jack has to go.

“I’ll call you,” Jack tells him, and Kent’s nodding. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” says Kent, and it feels like a promise.

Jack’s eyes linger on Kent before he turns to go, as if he wants to pull Kent right towards him and kiss him right there. God, does Kent want to do the same.

But they can’t.

But—maybe someday. Maybe.

Just maybe.

 

 

The home crowd in Providence is loud, electric in its fervor and energy for their team. Kent knows it’s a big game for them, but he can’t help but think about what else being in Providence means, now.

He takes his place at the center line, skating up to where Jack is waiting.

Their eyes meet.

Jack looks focused, determined as usual, but he gives Kent a quick little smile from across the ice. There’s something else in his eyes now. More than a promise. Something real.

Slowly, Kent smiles back, and prepares to take the face-off.

It starts like this:

The puck drops, once more.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr (hockey/motorsports)](http://schadenfraudulent.tumblr.com)


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